S is for SILENCE

I'd finished cutting the grass, cleaned the lawnmower and packed it away, wishfully hoping that it could now hibernate until spring but knowing that it would probably appear a few times before Santa. After all, it is only early October! The key had only turned in the shed door where it sleeps, I'd turned around to wander back home, but stopped, momentarily, to stroke my mum's two little Jack Russell terriers. And that's when the silence hit me. It was deafening. I knew I had to take a moment and breathe it in so I rested for a while on the white summer seat outside the place that I had called home for so many years. I think Snoopy and Patch sensed it too, for they both came over and lay at my feet as together we remembered. My sister still occupies the house but it was early afternoon and since she hadn't returned from work, the place looked strangely like a step back in time - except for the silence. It has been like that since February a year and a half ago, when mum joined dad on her final journey, but for some reason 'this moment in time' in its strangely unexpected way brought home the brevity of life and the constantly changing circumstances we all experience.



In the silence, I could remember dad whitewashing the walls of the sheds, peering out of the kitchen window, slumped in an armchair at the back door while reading the morning paper, with only an old straw hat protecting his long since receded hairline from the noonday sun. In the silence, I could see mum at every window, watching as I mowed the lawns, weeding in her precious garden, sitting beside dad with a young Snoopy on her lap. In the silence I could hear our neighbour Fred's tractor struggle up the hill on his weekly visit, John stopping in the yard for a chinwag on his way to the orchard, Howard parking his lorry outside the gates and ambling around the corner with the local news and Kenny's scooter doing three full circuits of the yard and sometimes leaving but usually pulling up for a cup of tea. In the silence I could hear a lorry load of bales arrive from many miles away and unloaded in the hayshed, Billy freewheeling into the yard in his mini van, my two young sons pedal over the concrete on their tricycles and an apple sprayer being filled from the water tap beside the garage. In the silence, I remember the sound of the milkman, the breadman, the lemonade man, the coalman and the grocery man.



But none of them come now, because the reason for their visits has gone. And the world is a quieter place. But in the silence I remember that it had already become quieter when we had gone and neither the noise of the television, the chat of the occasional visitor nor the sound of farmers working in the fields could hide the silence that dominated their world when the family has left the nest. I know, because I've been there.



It came and then it was gone, just as quickly. But I hadn't forgotten the silence that stopped me that afternoon. As the evening sun began to fall, a small round glow settled on one of the corrugated roofs and as I reasoned how this could be, with the fast fading sun on the wrong side of the building, already engulfed in shadow, I couldn't find an answer, but in the silence I had realised that I didn't have to find one, just like I don't have to know the reason why God lets some things happen that I can't explain. It's all about faith isn't it. Faith in a God who knows and sees all and whom we can still praise in the silence. As Job said, 'My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.' Thank God for the silence. It opens your eyes.

S is for SAW

Dad was never a man for machines. I think he had a philosophy in life that if something didn't involve hard manual labour, then it wasn't worthwhile doing or at least wouldn't be done as well. His favourite implements around the farm were the four-pronged grape, the two-pronged pitchfork, the scythe, the axe and the bow saw. The grape he used to rid his few small cattle sheds of the bedding mixture of straw and manure that built up over the winter time. It was hard, slow work but he took at it with all the vigour of a man who enjoyed his chore. When the grape wasn't being used for its primary job it was often seen at the vegetable patch in spring helping to turn over and shake the soil in readiness for making planting furrows - a different kind of bedding. The pitchfork was also multi-functional, usually in the summer turning and shaking hay in the sun to help it dry out before baling but for most of the year it served another purpose. On any morning or evening when we had either to move cattle or load them on to a lorry for market, it would be riding passenger in his car, then would appear in public just at the correct time to give a wayward animal a good prod in the right direction. Sometimes a particularly disobedient cow or one with a stronger than average hide required more than one reminder but I never saw the pitchfork fail to get the message home eventually when dad was in charge of it.


However I think the scythe was his favourite. And he was somewhat of an expert in its use. Its shaft was about five feet high, round and about three inches thick in diameter. The curling blade at the bottom measured about two and a half feet in length and he kept it razor sharp at all times. You knew when he intended using it, for the noise of sharpening stone against the blade filtered through the air as he sat on the garden seat with the scythe balanced between his knees and the twelve inch stone doing its job on both sides. Then, when he was sure it was sharp enough, he'd swing the scythe over his shoulder, pop the stone in his back pocket and with cap positioned precariously on head, walked off to the field to begin his day's work. It reminded me of that old rhyme, 'one man went to mow' and mow he did, often for hours on end. His main enemy was the thistle, which every year made an attempt to conquer one of his fields resulting in valuable grazing area being lost for the animals though nettles were equally as annoying but with one quick swing of his trusty scythe he could down half an army of the weeds and with each victory his satisfaction increased. Often he would stay out for hours, just man, scythe and sharpening stone in harmony as all invaders fell before them, only returning to home for dinner before commencing battle in the afternoon until there were no survivors. Even in his later years, when his stamina and strength were greatly reduced, the scythe still got the odd outing and I don't think that he really ever believed that my efforts with the tractor and mowing machine were as effective as his because my implement was much less selective and tended to mow valuable grass as well as weeds.


When all the thistles had been cleared, the sheds cleaned, the gardens dug, the hay made and the cattle loaded, there was still time to warm up the bow saw. He had two of them. One, a more up to date model with a 'padded' handle and the other that Noah had left behind when the ark had moved on. I think that's when I learned that it's not the machine that's important but the hand that is in charge of it. He used it to cut up apple tree branches for use in the kitchen and it became a regular, almost daily job to ensure that there was an apple box full of sawn sticks sitting outside the back door ready for use. When the bow saw found the going too tough or the branch was too thick, then the axe was taken down sharpened and with one mighty blow it would rain down on the wooden block and split it into usable chunks. The whole process, like everything else he did was very therapeutic as I often found out myself but I still preferred the chain saw or the circular saw if only for the speed of operation.


When I saw the blood dripping on the kitchen floor, I knew he was in trouble. You see, he wasn't a complainer but this time he had come in from the garage in a hurry and from the amount of blood in the ever increasing pool plus the sight of an exposed bone beneath the flesh, we knew that his request for a sticking plaster was hardly appropriate for the wound. Despite his skill, for one moment he had lost concentration and the saw had been unable to distinguish between wood and flesh as it cut a track between thumb and fore finger. The stitches that followed, put him out of operation for several weeks but at least the old implements got a chance to cool down though I guess they knew they would never be redundant while he was about. I love the verse I read in Paul's letter to the Thessalonians, 'Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands.' That about sums dad up.


And so it is with me. When I'm in charge of my own life, it becomes a bit blunt and while it might seem to the casual onlooker to be well organised, long term it can have no spiritual direction unless I let God be in charge. And the moment I remove His influence, I'm no longer able to accomplish what He wants. In truth I'm only really fulfilling my destiny when his hand has control. As the Psalmist says in chapter 119, 'Your hands made me and formed me; give me understanding to learn your commands.' And I've got His Word to keep me sharp for the battles ahead. But the starting point is to surrender to the Master. I guess I can't be any more blunt than that!

S is for SAND

I have been buried several times. I pleaded that I wasn't dead but nobody listened. Instead, the plastic shovels just kept digging deeper and deeper into the ground, excavating a huge mound of sand that lay close by to where I was sitting, waiting patiently. Even though I had every chance to do so, I made no attempt to escape, but, resigned to my fate, I found myself even helping to accelerate the process by scooping out the odd shovel of sand onto the heap. My captors were not entirely inconsiderate, allowing me the opportunity of one last request, which usually amounted to "Jennifer, can you not control our children?", after which I was encouraged to lie flat and motionless in the hole and accept my fate as the giggling accomplices poured the sand back from whence it came, but allowing me the privilege of being able to breathe. It's funny how cold you become under a mound of sand, even on a hot day, but dads never seem to learn for the next day the same thing happened again and I was totally helpless to avoid it.

The beach that year was packed with holiday makers and their cars for the sun shone all day, every day. We built sandcastles, dug river beds that we filled with water, carried in two tiny plastic buckets from the receding tide, buried family members, hammered wind breaks into the soft sand, had picnics, ate ice cream and just let the grains wander between our toes as we wandered the length of the strand to discover that everyone was doing roughly the same things. Everywhere, you could see children carrying plastic buckets and spades, transporting water to their creations so that the sand was wet enough to mould into any desired shape. Daddies and mummies keeping a careful eye on their young as they traversed the beach on their way to or from the water and a constant stream of cars looking for a space to erect their temporary home. During the day, an ice cream van would play its enchanting melody as it drove along the sand and then stop at regular intervals to appease the desires of its congregation. And most days, the sound of a large blue tractor could be heard as it answered the call of a stranded motorist who had either parked too far back in the soft sand or too near the advancing tide in the late afternoon.

Often, in the freshness of an early morning, we would walk along the mile or so of beach in the company of a few eager fitness enthusiasts, a stranded jellyfish or lost crab,the occasional horse that was being exercised by its owner and a gang of voracious seagulls scouring the area for the remains of anything edible. But the whole place looked different from the previous day, for the tide had come in as far as possible and had removed all the sand castles, ruts and rivers in the same manner as the old magic wipe boards, to leave everything looking new and unspoiled again, the sand smooth and the yesterday's fun now only a memory. Sometimes there was the odd remnant of the past where a well constructed defence had posed some resistance to the power of the waves beating against it but it was no longer recognizable for what it once was and the next high tide would probably wipe away any remaining traces of resistance.
I have walked on many beaches on different continents, sometimes the sand shifting easily under my feet, at other times remaining firm as I moved. Across the earth, children play the same games on it, use it to build their castles and gain the same pleasure from it. And at the end of the day, the waves take it all back out to sea.

I love sand but I wouldn't put a house on it. I'm not that stupid! That's why I totally empathise with the story Jesus told about the foolish man who built his house on the sand. I mean how silly can you get! Didn't he know what happens to sand in the rain? Had he never seen the waves destroy a sandcastle before? Did he not see the wise man constructing his mansion up on the rocks? Why did the planning authorities give him permission? Who was advising him? Or did he just not listen? I suppose it was OK for a while but he must have suspected something when the walls started to move. Anyway, for whatever reason, it was always going to end in disaster and his wise neighbour, who incidentally didn't seem to offer him any advice during the building process, stood on the rocks above and had a good chuckle to himself. He probably told all his friends about the idiot leaving nearby and they all had a good tut tut about his misfortunes. If we'd been there we'd have told the foolish man to wise up and build on some ground with a firmer foundation rather than ridicule him. At least not in the way we gossip about those who fall from grace, who have affairs, who get into debt, who steal or murder, who gamble, who have shady business deals, who don't pay their taxes, who never put their foot in church, who do something that we don't approve of. I suppose it's alright when you have a firm foundation but didn't Jesus say that everyone who heard his words and didn't put them into practice was just as foolish as the sandman.

So what is God telling me. I think He's saying 'it is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.' And I'm part of His plan to help those stuck in the sand, find a rock on which to build again and know that God's grace is greater than any wave at wiping away the past.

S is for SONGS

It all began with 'Blowin in the Wind' when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I'd been experimenting with the chords for some time and though I can't say that I knew much more than the first verse of the song, I did have a solid grasp of the tune. So without any further ado, I sat down in the old armchair in the kitchen and wrote some new lyrics, with a Christian slant of course. I called it, 'Give you life to Him.' It was brilliant and I managed to cram in more cliches per line than the average old time preacher puts in his whole sermon. I was so enthused by my creation that I even persuaded my sister to sing it in public while I strummed along and crooned a few notes of harmony. Mr. Dylan would not have been impressed with this abuse of his tune but, hey, 'how many ears can one man have?' I was now on a run and there followed a series of lyrics from the same pen to such lovelies as Edelweiss,Island of Dreams, I'll never find another you, The Last thing on my Mind, Streets of London and even a couple of Big Tom numbers. I also paid homage to Johnny Cash, Rick Nelson and Slade in my repertoire as the words just kept coming, until one day, having exhausted the cliche dictionary, I sat back and had a cold hard look at my work. To be honest, they all had more than a touch of 'My Lovely Horse' about them and I feel my face beginning to burn even as I write this, for my early attempts at songwriting would have made an ample meal for a shredder.

Yet it taught me a valuable lesson. Never be afraid to criticise your own work if it helps to make it better. I was too young to do that at the time and while I'm proud that I made an effort, retrospect is a wonderful tool. I learnt from those days and I also learnt from others. I once worked with a songwriter who never seemed to discard anything they wrote, neither melody or lyric. As a result, many of the songs that should never have seen the light of day, made their way into public view with the expected drastic consequences. Maybe I should have been more honest at times but all the while I was learning my own game and songwriters selfishly guard their creations and their knowledge, especially the mistakes of others. I learned very quickly to bin tunes with monotonous regularity unless they still produced a spark in me some weeks after I had created them. Likewise, the more I wrote, the more I saw the flaws in my previous writing and I have pages of draft lyrics that just never really fitted the song.

I began to write in more and more different ways, sometimes at the piano, acoustic guitar, or at a synth, often just with an electric guitar and drum machine, even occasionally with only a bass guitar. It was usually a matter of just singing a tune to a chord sequence, recording it and repeating the process. On a good night, I might come up with fifteen or twenty tunes that I would then listen to in the car, but by the end only one might make it past to the lyric stage and sometimes none at all. And so it was back to the drawing board and the whole process started again. Yet the greatest influence on all my songwriting attempts was God, for He was my inspiration and the reason I write at all. And it's not strange that the songs that I lave felt most happy about, are the ones that only took a few minutes to write, because God was in it and He had something to say beyond my own thoughts. You see, I'm not a preacher and there are those who are better at talking to strangers, one to one. Others are great organisers, many make excellent Sunday School teachers, some show great compassion and bring comfort to the sick and elderly and some are just suited to the many practical and administrative roles that church life offers. While I can do all of those things, there are so many who are so much better than I am but I can express my worship of God and His salvation in a song or poem so I guess that's my role. Yet isn't that the whole point of the body of believers that we call the church. God has given us all different gifts and in using them we not only encourage each other but we help His church to grow.

We are not all teachers, preachers, healers, administrators or even songwriters but we all have our own job to do for him and as Paul reminds us, 'there are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit.' So lets do our work for His kingdom in the right spirit and if you haven't even started out on the road yet, in the words of that immortal first song, 'the answer my friend is Give Your life to Him.'

S is for STUMP

Just across the stream that separates the two fields behind our home, in one corner of the lower paddock, lies a small sheltered area. Along the two hedgerows that form a border with the field are several entry or exit points that require extreme caution as one moves across the uneven and mucky terrain. Within its walls stand the remains of several elderly apple trees that bear little fruit nowadays and also a few damson plum bushes whose branches look decidedly frail and who now produce their less than bountiful harvest in silence and without praise from intruders. Everywhere lies evidence of an enclosure that has remained unattended for many years and its prime function in this new century is in providing shelter for the cattle that seek its covering during a summer shower or a cold autumn. By winter time,they too have gone and it is left to spend the winter months in loneliness, except for the occasional rabbit of fox that might find refuge on a dark night. But it wasn't always the case. My father, in his earlier years and when his memory could recall local history in detail, had often recounted that our ancestral home form only a few generations back was sited there. Indeed, closer inspection of the central area reveals many piles of well-fashioned, oblong stones, some still in wall formation, others randomly distributed on the ground, but all providing enough evidence that some form of human existence had been in place, before the family home was relocated to its present hilltop position. It's still there though there is little left now, but there is enough to remind me of our humble origins.

Many years ago, when both our lads were still looking forward to their teens, we buried a small red tin biscuit box at the corner of the garden. It was one of those boxes that seem to be everywhere at Christmas, with about twelve different types of biscuits that essentially all taste the same. Anyway, with the biscuits all consumed some months or even years earlier and the box having no useful function beyond hoarding old nails and bolts, we decided to bury it 'a la Blue Peter' as a sort of time capsule, to show what life was like in the early nineties. In the days following its burial, they both wanted to dig it up and it was difficult to explain the need for patience to young minds as they waited impatiently to grow up.I'd like to tell you what we put inside, but almost twenty years later I haven't got a clue. I hope I can still find it or that the boys remember about it some time in the future, but it is there and it will always be a reminder of a special time in our lives.

When I was their age, I owned an Aston Martin. It was gold coloured, had red upholstery and if your passenger became annoying, the ejector seat became handy. I've wondered why they are not a prerequisite in any family saloon! Anyhow, it also had twin machine guns on the front bumpers and a bullet shield that extended from the boot for added protection. Most of the villains I met while driving it, never had a chance as it raced across the living room carpet. James Bond would have been so proud of me. I found it a few years ago, in an old box of toys I had stored in the attic for my children and there it lay at peace alongside the Batmobile and Napoleon Solo's car. It's still there and though I don't burn its rubber on the carpet any more, it reminds me of every child's period of make believe.

Which brings me to the stump. It's only about eighteen inches high now, covered in moss, a home to an assortment of insects and with the bark peeling off on one side, partly due to the rigorous testing it receives from our cat's claws. It stands at the far end of our garden where once it was surrounded by a host of apple trees in an orchard that provided a dark canopy and was a flurry of noise at this time of year as the fruit was collected and removed. It's still there and although it seems to serve no useful purpose, since its fruit bearing days have long been resigned to history, I'm reluctant to remove it, for it reminds me of a time when our present home didn't exist and when more than just the landscape was different.

And in my recollections, I remember the cross. Not the one on the chapel nearby but the one that I have never seen. The one that carried the last breaths of a person I've never seen. But through the testimony of others who lived with Him, I know He existed and I know He carried His cross to die for me. For it is through their memories of Jesus, recorded in His book, the Bible, that I see my past and why He had to die. As Paul says, 'For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.'

It's still there today for no one can ever remove its power and it reminds me not only of my past but also of my future.

S is for SAYINGS

'What do you expect from a pig but a grunt?' dad would say, when someone had said or done something that they might not have done, if more thought had been given to the consequences. I think at times it carried a vague reference to their family tree but often was nothing more than dad saying, 'I tole you so, that's what they're really like.' Dad was no angel but he tended to speak his mind. As we would say, 'he had no back doors,' for 'what you saw was what you got.' It wasn't the only saying he had. Often when a female visitor had left after dominating the conversation for a whole evening, he would utter, ' that woman would deave you,' a reference to the fact that listening to her for any longer might cause one to lose all sense of hearing, or else he would say, 'she could talk the leg of a stool,' obviously a pretty difficult job at the best of times. Or if one of my favourite singers was performing on the box, he would be likely to intervene with, 'that's the tune the oul cow died of,' which did my confidence in recognising a good song no end of damage. Likewise, I remember on several occasions after a small misdemeanour, like spilling a mug of tea over the tablecloth, he would look at me and say, 'you big-headed ram.' That was the ultimate insult he could utter at such a time and it was taken in the same vein as it was given and after one or two more additional comments, it seemed to appease his frustration and he would carry on as if nothing had happened. Later in life, he would use the same phrase to one of his grandsons, when they erred at the table, however the smile on his face as he spoke suggested that it was offered more in jest than in earnest. And he had his own language for the weather for in one day it go from 'spittin' to 'teemin' to 'a right wee shower' to 'a real wettin rain'. Or if one of his heifers was keen to have a male friend he would talk about her 'lookin away.'

Mum had a few sayings of her own, including, 'I'm going to wet the tea,' but she would have been more likely to have a verse from the Bible to endorse what she wanted to say than fall back on a well worn phrase. It's funny, but most of the things they said I find mingling with my own vocabulary from time to time.Such sayings are part of every day life here and I remember well when a previous boss was in a bad mood that a colleague would always refer to this by saying 'the ducks are in the nettles.' At such times you knew to avoid the area, presumably until the ducks had gone to a less weeded area.

But the other day I heard a new phrase that I'd never come across before. I was having a long chat with a friend and we got to talking about our families. I had remembered well the times his father had visited our house when I was still at primary school. He was a cattle dealer, like my dad, and most of the talk centred around the price of bullocks and heifers at the various markets they visited. This was interspersed with talk about people they both knew and as he sat there in his brown dealer's boots, still bearing the freshness of the cattle market he had just left, I listened with a captivating interest at the stories he could tell and the all-consuming way he could relate them. He really was a colourful character and though his language was not always to mum's liking he could hold you spellbound with his conversation. And that is what I told his son, for those are the memories I had of the man. But I was stunned by his reply for he said, 'well, when he came home, he always hung his fiddle on the door.' For a moment, I wasn't sure what he meant and then I realise that the character I had known was not the person his family saw. It stopped me in my tracks, not simply because my young mind had shown such a lack of discernment, but because I wondered how others saw me.

Am I always the same with everybody? In terms of my faith do I compromise to find favour? Is the person my family knows, the character that others see? Yet most important, is the image I portray to others, the real person that God knows? It's sobering to think, as James warns us that, 'Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers, this should not be.' Paul, in writing to the church at Phillipi reminds them that' Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus.' for he is the same 'yesterday and today and forever.'

I don't want to hang my fiddle on the door. I want to bring it into every place I go. I want to share my faith with whom God chooses and not with my own choices. That would be music to His ears.

S is for SAFARI

We had been driving for an hour. After a late afternoon start, the light had faded more quickly than it does at home and dusk lasted only a short time before darkness enveloped us and hid most things from our natural view. But we had been lucky. As the sun stopped supporting the daylight, the ranger had spied a rhino in the distance and manoeuvred his open-topped land rover off the main track and into the bush. The animal seemed more intent on moving on than attacking but we followed at a safe distance for about half an hour until it reached the safety of an overgrown area of bushes and merged with the surrounding vegetation. Having given up any hope of seeing the rhino reemerge, we set off once again for a watering hole, where a flask of hot coffee and some hard biscuits replenished our physical needs while we listened to the eerie and lonely silence of an African bush evening. Then it was off again, in search of the elusive big five. AS we travelled along the bumpy dirt tracks that traversed the national park, the uneasiness of not knowing what was watching our vehicle from the darkness was always at hand and as we waited, sometimes impatiently for a sighting of an animal, our guide explained the night sky constellations of the southern hemisphere and told stories of previous experiences on safari.


And then, all of a sudden, there it was, right in front of us, startled initially by the headlights, then quickly sensing danger, moving off the track and heading for some low set bushes. Our guide shone a torch in its direction so that we could get a better look and it certainly didn't seem too fierce and made no attempt to charge our vehicle and to be honest, I didn't feel afraid, even in the darkness although it was only standing about four feet away from me as I sat in the rear of the jeep. Maybe it was the gun of our ranger, the dazzle of the jeep lights or maybe it was the fact that I'd seen its cousin in our garden, back at home, just a few days ago. Or maybe it's that I've never been afraid of a rabbit! Yet after over two hours in the bush, I began to wonder had I travelled over six thousand miles just to see something I could view from my kitchen window any day of the week. The ranger explained in detail the species and its habitat, sometimes over fairly suppressed laughter, but I guess he was only doing his job. The elephants we uncovered, roaming in the dark bush right beside us, a few minutes later brought some normality to the fact that we were in a perilous place. Also the lack of any secure fencing around our lodge huts, stories of regular visits by inquisitive big cats who used the paths around the base as a short cut and the pairs of eyes that constantly peered at us from the darkness as we 'relaxed' back at camp that night, reminded us that danger was never far away. But in truth we were never too scared to go out on the trail, whether it was a dawn jaunt in the jeep to catch the animals before their alarms had gone off or an afternoon walkabout down to the waterhole to view a family of elephants on a nature ramble, because the guide always kept us at a sensible distance and he had the knowledge and the armoury to protect us. And of course he had covered the trail a thousand times and knew all its inherent dangers.


I love the verse in Matthew's gospel where Jesus sends out his disciples with these words, 'And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.' Equally, when Moses handed over the leadership of Israel to Joshua, he did so with these words, 'The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.' I often think of my time in the African bush and how my walk of faith is littered with moments of danger, sadness, uncertainty, surprise and the unknown and how Satan is watching constantly for his moment to emerge from the darkness and attack me off guard. I think of the ranger whose first thought was for my safety from wild animals and how Jesus is always there with me in every area and knows the road better than I do. That's why I'd rather follow in His footsteps than make my own.